I read Rhondor Dowlat’s article, ‘Former Pioneers Wary of Gov’t Plan — TTT Model Can’t Be Recreated Now’, which was published in your newspaper on Sunday, August 27, 2017. While I agree with Mr. Parasram’s point of view regarding the resurrection of TTT, his failure to acknowledge my late father’s contribution as a significant pioneer of Trinidad & Tobago Television struck me as strange. Any omission of John Barsotti’s name when discussing television history in Trinidad and Tobago is inaccurate at best and disrespectful at worst. ‘Uncle Jai, as we used to call him as children, worked for my father when he was Programme Director and then General Manager of TTT and acknowledged this fact himself in a blog post entitled ‘TTT Pioneer John Barsotti Passes Away in Canada’, in which he said, “His career began in 1964 in the Promotions and Commercial Production Department of Trinidad &Tobago Television. In 1970 he was promoted to the position of Commercial Production Director and in 1974 to Assistant Programme Director. In 1976 he left TTT […] in 1978, John was invited to rejoin TTT as Programme Director and accepted the position which he held for about 41/2 years before being promoted to General Manager in 1983.”

John Barsotti (Oct. 24th, 1937- Oct. 24th 2008.) John Worked at TTT from 1964 to 1976. He returned in 1978 and was Program Director until 1983. He served as General Manager of the station from 1983 to 1986.

These facts are in direct conflict to the timeline that Mr. Parasram gave your reporter, and I would like to clarify this for your readers.

My father started at TTT (also known as Television House) when he was 25 years old. In 1964, he worked under Barry Gordon, who encouraged my eager father to learn every aspect of the television industry. Dad knew how to work a camera, run audio, light a set, write copy, put together a news item, sell advertising and run traffic department logs. He did work under Farrouk Muhammad, like Mr. Parasram said, as Assistant Program Director until Mr. Muhammed left the country to live in Toronto. Dad became Program Director until about 1983, and was General Manager of the station until 1986.

That same year, Mr. Parasram left for Canada and did in fact work with the CBC, as mentioned in the article. Meanwhile, the National Alliance for Reconstruction (NAR) had just been elected as the new government of Trinidad and Tobago; political interference would go on to deal my father the biggest blow to his life’s work. While it was par for the course for whatever administration was in power to try and dictate programming content, TTT’s new board of directors wasted no time in presenting my father with a list of 12 or so employee names, all supporters of the former government. The directive was for my father to fire these people or be fired himself. Perhaps they thought that the timing would work in their favour to strong arm him, since I was just about to begin my studies abroad.

But my father was a principled man and told the board he was not going to fire anyone because of their political affiliation. Two days later, he was fired from TTT and the media splashed the headline ‘Barsotti Fired’ in red capital letters on their front pages. The next day, I drove him to TTT to return the company car and gather his things; tearful staff lined up from the stairs to the carport to say their goodbyes. I still went off to university (I paid for it myself),but my father had to start from scratch in another country, all for doing the right thing — and despite my dad playing the part of the sacrificial lamb, the 12 people on that list were still let go.

To forget John Barsotti is to forget a significant piece of our nation’s broadcast history and to erase so many other players who were there from the start. Some may think this doesn’t matter — that these pioneers are all ghosts — but this one is my ghost and I love and admire my dad’s quiet dignity and everything he stood for. Had he still been here and read the article in question, he would no doubt have told me, “Don’t bother with this, Danie. The people who know me, know the truth and that is what matters.” But getting history right also matters.

Daddy circa 1965 Operating the old film camera

John Barsotti – third from the left, top row.

I know how Sylvia Hunt’s dishes tasted. I know the smell of the room where they stored the film canisters and the feel of the wood shavings at the back of the building where Patrick Moore would build the sets. I was there when TTT switched from film to video and when — after a long battle with the government — Dad bought and installed our country’s first satellite dish. I remember how stressed he was as the cranes placed it in the yard of the station and I watched the first broadcast via satellite. No longer would Trinbagonians have to listen to the Olympics audio over a still of TTT’s logo. We were able to see the Olympics and many other worldwide events LIVE, clearly and without an expensive feed from the major US networks; we finally felt connected to the world. It was historic. My father was very much a pioneer and it is worrying that he was excluded from Rhondor Dowlat’s article. I would like it to be corrected.

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She turned 50 and She is glorious! She is remarkable. She is unflappable. She has a strong sense of self. She has never felt so much power. Power which built up inside her over the years. Power She can use to fuel good. Power She can use to ignite change. She is educated and experienced. She works hard and She works well. She has an eye for detail. She is efficient. She is creative. She doesn’t stand for nonsense, knows what to take seriously and what to ignore. She is a rock. She can be relied upon. She will boost you. She will put you in your place. She will can get you back on track. She has learned from the best and She has learned from her mistakes. She will share your joy and your sorrow. She will not forget or abandon you. She will have your back. She will give you her word. She will respect herself and if you show her respect, She will respect you. She is a teacher, doctor, chef, lawyer, financier, photographer. She is in pharmaceuticals, insurance, is an artist, environmentalist, author, journalist, nurse, activist, entrepreneur, traveler, explorer and a great many things too numerous to list. She knows when to be outspoken. She knows when to be reserved. She still works full-time. She works part-time. She has gone back to work. She has embarked upon her second career and She is retired. She still has school age kids while just up the street, She is an empty-nester. She lives where we all call home. She lives abroad and so does She. She feels like She has lived out of a suitcase as She moved all over her adopted country. Meanwhile, She has lived all over the world. She speaks 2 languages. She speaks 3. She went away for a while and came back to where we all call home. She goes back and forth all the time. One She left too soon but is remembered fondly and her spirit lives on. A few She’s have battled illness and survived. She married young. She married older. She chose not to marry. She married once, then married better. She ain’t marrying nobody again. She’s begun a new relationship. She is a single mother and her children are just fine. She has forgiven. She has been forgiven. She has a lover. She has a wife. She has a husband. She has an ex-husband. Some She’s have late boyfriends and husbands far too soon. She is a mother, a nurturer, healer, counselor, nutritionist, chauffeur and peacemaker – all par for the course when you are trying to put good people on the planet . She is an aunt. She is a sister, a daughter, a mentor, a friend. She is a grandmother. She is a great aunt. She is not a parent but she is parenting her own parents now. She laid her parents to rest. She, just her dad. She, only her mom. She, her brother. She, her sister. She, her child. She has a “sweet hand” and could cook so well everybody get real vex when their belly full and they can’t help themselves to more. She prays. She loves her church. She loves God. She is spiritual. She is less so. She likes to play mas. She ain’t playing mas no more but loves her Carnival still. She is a winner. She is a champion. She has an official title. She has overcome adversity. So has She. And She has as well. She is aware of her mortality. She is an advocate for her child and there are at least 3 other She’s just like her. She has been afraid but She is no coward. She’s been embarrassed. She has experienced redemption. She loves having her genuine friends around her. She is a genuine friend and is (along with a couple other She’s) the reason we have all come together. She can be counted on to make sure She is always available to get together and lime when She comes home for a visit. She will stand up over and over again for what she believes in and what is right. She has faced injustice, pain and heartbreak but She is still here. She has been worried more times than She would have liked but She survived it. She too is still here as is She, after riding that wave of euphoria only to have it crash on top of her and wash her up on the beach. She is no stranger to picking up the pieces, dusting her self off, fixing her hair and starting over. She is proud of herself and She is proud of her family. She is proud to call Her friend. She likes to feel love from everybody and seeks only the truth. She can’t hear music with out moving her hips. She really laughs – like all out genuine from the bottom of her gut laughter. She gets angry. She cries. She re-groups and moves forward. And after being the backbone, the engine, the one who stands up for her family and friends and what She believes in, She has made a difference and She will continue to make a difference. She has arrived at 50 in style and more than ever She is a force of nature. Today we have She’s touching walls in the pool first in her field. We have She’s back in school further expanding their minds. She’s We have She’s continuing to belt out songs that touch people’s souls. We have She’s athletic as ever and transforming their bodies and are fitter now than they were in their youth. She senses the body betrayal now and again as her eyesight isn’t as sharp as it used to be and She feels a little wear and tear now and the bones crack louder than ever sometimes but…She is still moving and doing her thing, living life to the fullest and learning new things. She is still playing guitar and piano. Some She’s are still on stage performing. She is still drawing and painting. Some She’s are still playing golf and tennis. She is running marathons and She is like a contortionist with all the yoga while She is still slipping on dance shoes, She is still zipling, She is still hiking and She is still doing tours. She is still swimming, still playing hockey, still doing because She knows “Time don’t stop, nah!” Life is short. Life is for living and She knows She has entered a new phase that frankly is better than the ones before. We have She’s growing locks, chopping off locks, left, right and centre, embracing the grey and their natural curls. She is feeling more sexy and beautiful than ever because She has lived a whole lot of life and has been there, done that and is comfortable in her own skin and She loves how easy being her lovely self can be.She knows natural is better and that natural is beautiful. She still likes “nice ting” but has less time or desire for frou frou. And hear nuh, the hair might be grey but the skin still tight, tight, tight and not one She looking much different than when She strolled the halls of SJC. Seriously though, None of She really need to wear the reunion name tag because time lookin’ like it stop! She could show the world that age is just a number. Fifty is re-birth. Fifty is strength and confidence with no shit-talk-let’s-get-down-to-brass-tacks-and-call-a-spade-a-spade. She only has time for what is real. She has buried the hatchet with some. She has buried the past and ended relationships with others. She is particular about whom she calls friend. She is savvy. She is open minded. She will love you, not just with her heart but with her head. She is brazen and the scars She got over the years have made her stronger. Who knew when She was eleven and twelve and She entered our school for the first time that She would have amounted to so much…that the path that She took, the cards that She was dealt, the calling She had and the circumstances She faced when tallied together would yield so much strength and power. We turned 50. We are fabulous. We are free. We are beautiful and We are all the power of She.

~Cheers to being a part of all of our 50th’s. Thanks for being a part of mine. Here’s to our connection to each other and to witnessing many more birthdays~ Love you all – Danie

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Throughout his life, my autistic son who is brilliant has been perceived as being less so. The people that matter in his life, know the truth about him and I have never wasted any time trying to prove his worth to anyone not intelligent enough or anyone who is too self absorbed or frivolous to understand. Over the years of rejoicing through the great times and wading through the murky, thick mud of the heartbreaking times, I have come to know that the truth about both my children is beautiful. In a time of chaos brewed by racism, terrorism and hatred I feel their father and I have managed to put a sliver of hope for better on this planet.

Two days ago sitting in a cloud of misery borne out of merely watching a half hour newscast, I heard Adam in the other room in full *echolalia going on happily about something that was happening in the Big Bang Theory which is the latest show he likes to binge watch. His *scripting had something to do with the character Raj and I thought I would do a little test. I called him into the living room and asked him what was going on in the episode he was watching and he proceeded to tell me how funny it was and that it was because Raj was saying silly things. Feigning ignorance, I asked him which character was Raj. He turned to go get his tablet in his room so that he could show me when I stopped him and asked him to describe Raj. What you have to understand is that Adam hates being pushed into descriptive language but it is something we are working on and I wanted to see what he would say. He twisted his mouth, scrunched his nose and then he said,

“He is the tall one,” to which I responded,

“So Leonard is …”

“Leonard is short. Raj is a guy,” he offered.

“A guy like Leonard and Sheldon and Howard?”

“Yes. Howard is short,” he replied.

“But I still can’t place Raj. Which one is he?” I pressed on.

Adam proceeded to say adjectives like tall, skinny, silly, funny, jokey…he never said that Raj was brown. Not that he does not know his colours – I remember vividly when he was 5 and he was learning colours he certainly realized that mummy was brown but that was it. It was an observation when he was 5 and to this day, Adam has never used colour to describe anyone because he has never associated a person with their colour – ever. I have however had to un-teach some of the derogatory words he has heard in school over the years. Words that sometimes were directed towards him when misinformed or rather poorly-informed kids saw that I was his mother. He would say the words completely out of context and I would have to spend weeks purging them from his vocabulary by teaching him in the most basic of terms that some words are just so very bad. I hope I never have to un-teach him words such as those again but I shan’t be naive because this world is getting worse.

People who don’t know Adam or those who know him and have labelled him, will never see beneath the surface the way those who know him do. He may have to struggle through some days sometimes because of his autism, he may have to do things differently to get by and he may have some days when having to adjust things to suit him or to keep him successful is a real pain in the ass for whomever has to make the adjustments but one thing is certain – Adam sees people. He sees their soul, he sees their personality and he sees their beauty because even with perfect vision my son cannot see their colour. There is a purity about him that I attribute to his autism that I wish every human had. He knows what pretty is but he never calls anything ugly although he understand’s the meaning of the word. He does not place any emphasis on riches but he certainly understands that he has to help someone who may be poor. He is paid in self satisfaction, happiness and pride for every job he does and he works harder than most from beginning to end. Hmm…autistic with a work ethic. Chew on that for a while.

I shake my head and laugh so many times when I think of the resolute therapists who incessantly repeated the importance of integrating Adam into the world by working on reducing or stopping his “inappropriate” behaviors and quirky actions so that in essence he could be more like other people in society. I think it should be the other way around because I have seen what my boy sees. I have laid beside him in that little playroom as I waited on him to meet me halfway; doing what he did, stretching out our hands to the light streaming through that tiny basement window, watching the little specs of dust dance between our fingers. I remember feeling a glorious release when we would roll down the hill at the playground near our house when he and his brother were little. I remember the giggles and the all out raucous laughter, the smell of the grass and the feel of the dirt on my body. I’d forgotten the abandon of childhood and I am eternally grateful to my children for re-introducing me back then to just how much fun and how freeing life can be. I remember laying on our backs in that playroom staring at the ceiling, humming and becoming so relaxed that my body sank into the carpet as I was lulled to sleep by my little boy’s sweet voice. We met each other halfway in that playroom – he, discovering the wonders of the world as I presented it to him; me, recognizing just how over stimulating and bombarding the world actually was. In that playroom where I taught my son everything he knows, I learned from him how to let the noise go, how to hear what was within me and how to tap into moments of peace. Adam knows how to get back to his soul. Even when it is most difficult for him he knows how to tap into that place of goodness, knows how to let go of all that has him tangled and twisted up emotionally in order to restore himself and dwell in a place of peace and love. Shouldn’t we all figure out how to do that? Think about how much less pain we all could cause if we are able to release anger and horrible, hateful or violent thoughts from our minds and hearts and return to a place of peace and love and restore ourselves and each other. Yeah, right…integrate my son into society as it is, my ass. We should be so lucky to be more like him.

Learning to Unlearn

It is no secret that to me, my second son Logan, is one of the best people I know. My aunt Meiling would call someone like Logan “too mannish” because he is far too young to be this miniature man of integrity and depth. He has a sensibility that I have not seen in anyone so young. His ability to discern bullshit from truth is something I did not have mastered by the time I was a teenager and to quote my husband “Watch for our son because anyone who ends up involved with him will be beyond fortunate because of the human he is,”

I have tried very hard to raise Logan to not see race, creed or colour. It was easier with Adam being autistic but by the time Logan got to grade 2 he learned what colour was unfortunately. Looking back on my own childhood, I would say I was lucky to have grown up in a multicultural, multiracial society and be raised by parents who had friends from all walks of life, all colours and religions but like Logan, when I was 5, even sweet T&T way back then had it’s structure and divisions that were somewhat subtle at times blatant at others. I remember what living with that was like – bouncing in and out of acceptance, hearing derogatory racial slurs in conversations, in traffic, putting up with disgusting comments from idle limers as my mother and I walked by them. My childhood was a good one but there are things I learned about the world that I was determined to do something about. I knew there was no way to protect my children from these lesser things but I could teach them to be better and also be better than me and those before them. It may be naive of me but I like to think if I could just put two decent and good humans on the planet, I could make significant change.

So with Logan, I also did a little test. I was in the living room when his friend came to the door. He had just come from work on the reserve and he made a crack about delivering watery gas to our door. The boys bantered back and forth with little jabs about each other’s ethnicity and then went out to grab a couple lemonades from the store. When he got back, Logan joined us to watch the unfolding of events in Charlottesville and he was, like we were, disappointed in what we were witnessing. Pausing the broadcast, I told him that I had something I needed him to do for me moving forward in light of all the hate and racism in the world. I asked him to stop the light jabs among his friends that had racist tendencies. He assured me they were all best buddies and no one took anything personally but I counteracted his point by pointing to the television.

“It can start with simple jesting and it can evolve into this,” I told him. “We say stuff among our friends and no one is really offended so we accept it and then it gets a little more pronounced and we accept that too and then we have a difference of opinion and someone says something in anger and even though things may cool down and you are still buddies, it was blurted out and there is a dividing line in the friendship. We cannot accept racism and lighthearted racist ribbing is not to be done anymore. It is not accepted and if you end it, it will end in your circle of friends. The same way you do not tolerate the use of the word retarded to describe mentally challenged people, you must not participate in or tolerate racist jokes or jabs at all,”

My boy looked me in the eye and told me he understood and he would change it. Two days later when the friends were at the door, I was in the kitchen and one of them greeted the other with another native joke and my boy said,

“So, here’s the thing. We can’t do that anymore, okay? My mom spoke to me about it and I agree with her. She wasn’t mad or anything but she’s right. We are friends and we don’t want to get into talking like this so no more racist jabs. We cool?”

I heard the pseudo-manly voices echo in agreement and just like that they went down the street in front of one of their houses and started shooting hoops. I didn’t tell him I heard them that night and in the car yesterday, Logan told me that he spoke to his buddies and they all agreed not to make anymore dumb jabs about race. He said they actually agreed they didn’t really know why they were doing it. They didn’t think it was funny and they didn’t really like it. I know Logan has struggled with the answer to the occasional question “So what are you? “from some idiot after they realize I am his mother. Today he answers quite simply, “Human….a guy… a person,” and if they persist he suggests they “might want to do some travelling…read a book…get exposed, eh?”

There is so much going on now in the world. Our time is as filled with turmoil as it is with bliss – sometimes it is so overrun with turmoil that we have to do all we can to find bliss so that we can hang on to a shred of decency and sanity. I am in the middle of my life and one day it will draw to an end but my children’s lives are just beginning and I can see that so many young people are trying hard to hold on what is real, to what is pure and what is true. It is an uphill battle and I understand why so many of our youth have difficulty coping with life as it is. They have so much more to deal with than we did and everyday they try to separate what is good about living in their time of technology from what is heinous and all I can do in my middle age is try and stay abreast of it all and not criticize them or compare their time to mine but truly support them however I can.

If there is one thing marriage and parenting have taught me is the importance of communication. In all my years of raising my boys I have never talked and listened more than I do now. Every week there is something I learn that was not a part of my vocabulary. Forget learning French, German, Cantonese, Spanish or what have you, I have had to master “youth speak” in ways I never imagined and as un-cool as I know I am, my husband and I are the first stop when my boys’ world come crashing down around them. Their father and I won’t be there for them every time it happens and one day we will not be here at all and I hope their coping skills continue to be strong. It’s like my husband says, “Parenting is 50/50. We can only hope that they hold on to that fifty percent of what we instilled in them the question mark is what they do with the other fifty and we can only hope they have the strength of character to navigate it in the right direction,”

In Logan’s lifetime he is going to learn and experience many things. Some will be great and some will not and he will have to choose between doing the right thing or the easy thing, the right thing or the popular thing and the right thing or the wrong thing. He will soar and he will crash and he will soar again and his life will roller coster on just like any other life. My hope for his generation is that they can learn from the mistakes of past generations as well as their own and that they can release or un-learn some of the things we may have carelessly and mindlessly taught them. I hope they are better than we are and better than their grandparents. I hope they put humanity first and that they operate from a place of love. I hope their generation sees an end to terror and most of all I hope they un-learn racism and bigotry and learn acceptance. Who knows, maybe…just maybe theirs is the generation to turn the world around and propel us upward from the downward spiral we seem to be on.

*Echolalia is the repetition of words or phrases with sometimes no meaning or function attached to them. … Sometimes this behavior is termed “scripting” because the words and phrases the person is repeating comes from tv or movie scripts.

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Decided I’m ready to post some of the stuff I dabble in from time to time.

This was an interesting experiment. Got a little artsy and wrote it as it popped into my head. I just wrote it down as I “heard” myself think it. It didn’t win or place in the contest and I did not expect it to but I did have fun going in a different direction this time. (I’ve won that contest before anyway) I write fiction sometimes but none of what I write is 100 percent made up in my head. The shit I know….the things I remember..well, they inspire me and make me trying new things. This essay is creepy and it’s not sweet or girlie or uplifting. It is about two people, the demise of a relationship and the level we can sink to as human beings who at one time actually were able to love. So yeah, entering it in a women’s writing contest probably was a surefire way not to win or place but hey, I can post it on my blog now. It’s mine and I enjoyed writing it. I left the breaks inserted so it would read easier…a little less confusing …can’t expect you to be in my head to hear it lol.

I’m Watching You

I’m watching you. You’re coming down the driveway more slowly than usual in your shiny new silver Lexus – a gift to yourself with your first big pay cheque. Don’t see the kids in the car. They must be at your parents’ – again. I wonder if you’ve assumed I’m coming with you on your little work jaunt? A jaunt you only decided to tell me about last night, Emma? And you wonder why I get angry. You deliberately tell me about these things at the last minute knowing I won’t be able to join you. You get to go off on your own and do whatever you want with whomever you please and when you come home, it’s the same bull shit story about how I would have been bored anyway because you were tied up in meetings all weekend long. You’ve been lying for years, but for the last two, I’ve known your secret.

I’m watching you. You look haggard, my dear. You’re beauty has faded because inside you’re selfish and ugly. All your lies are catching up to you and everyone is realizing the truth about you. I’m tired of the cheating and the lies and I’m sick of fighting. And those men? They can have you but before they do, I will watch you walk through a maze of misery. I will watch you taste a fraction of the bitterness you fed me before you watch me go.

***

“Hayden? … You here? … You coming? Hayden, I’m heading out!” God,I hate coming home. Who am I kidding? This hasn’t been a home in years. It’s a prison … a hell hole. Whatever we thought we had is dead. That’s why I cheat on you darlin…to feel alive…to feel something. And now, I have to deal with you.

Did I scare you, Em? Didn’t expect to walk into our bedroom to the sudden blare of our wedding song, huh? I’m watching you prop yourself against the door, gasping. Startled, honey? Well be prepared to be scared.

***

What…Is that…is that glass ? “No…NO, NO, NO! Hayden!”

***

Follow the broken glass, Emma. Watch your step.

***

“Oh, my God!”

***

Oh, it’s blood, just not mine. Oh, the convenience of living in the country.

***

“Hayden! Answer me!”

***

You’re following the path perfectly. I am watching you run to the stable. You’ve haven’t taken care or ridden those horses in years. Don’t worry, they’re fine. Careful rushing in there. Might want to look up.

***

“Hayden, no!” What? Wait…What the hell is this? Why did he do this? “Hayden! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?… HAYDEN!”

***

Were you concerned it was me hanging from the rafters? Don’t worry. Just a couple oat bags. I’d never hurt myself , Emma. I just want to hurt you.

***

“Hayden! Asshole! I HATE you! Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?”

***

I am watching you. You’re running across the field towards me. I can hear the snap of the twigs under your feet. Your knees buckle and you stumble. Your too short white skirt is torn; your hands and knees smeared with blood and dirt. I can hear you breathing, panting, sobbing. I can hear and see your fear. Your face is ghostly white. I slowly rise up from my lair in the long, wild grass, my fingers slowly brushing up the long blades as I rise to my feet, grasping you tightly. You’re screaming hysterically. Your eyes wild, lips quivering, body trembling. Our eyes meet and I recognize the second you understand what I’ve done to you. Your frail body goes limp in my arms and I lay you on the ground. You sink deep into the long grass and as you look up at me in disbelief with your sunken eyes and drawn cheeks, I notice how tiny you are and how easily I could end you. But I won’t in spite of all you’ve done to me, to us and our family. In this moment, I am not angry but euphoric.

“Why?” you manage to whisper.

“Because it’s my turn to hurt you,”

“You were watching me all this time?”

“Yes,”

“You’re a sick bastard,”

“So are you. Enjoy your trip. Goodbye, Emma,”

You are sobbing. I turn and walk away. I feel you watching me. It’s over between us, now. I have closureand I’m ready to start living again.